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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288086">12 Days of IrdaRkverse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temve/pseuds/Temve'>Temve</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Irdakverse [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Crack, Clones, Horny boi rules the galaxy, Irdak - Freeform, M/M, Zabraks (Star Wars)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:41:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,394</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temve/pseuds/Temve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snapshots from a pretty darn cracky AU of regular Irdakverse where Obi-Wan was offworld the day the Jedi Temple’s community med team picked up a somewhat battered half-Zabrak with an odd Force signature… but, one connection missed, another one made…</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dooku (Star Wars)/Other(s), Dooku/Qui-Gon Jinn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Irdakverse [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Day 1: Beware of Men Who Wear Cloaks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tornado_fox/gifts">tornado_fox</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First off, this is NOT regular Irdakverse. As will become pretty clear pretty quickly :D</p>
<p>‘Irdark’ is one of my most frequent typos for the boy’s name, and also of course shorthand for what happens when there’s Sithiness involved.</p>
<p>This is a Christmas present for tornado_fox who started this whole Irdakverse with her art and who keeps on giving (and who may well be the only person to want to read this fic, let’s be honest) - to bridge the calendar gap between my Christmas Day and yours, have <s>12</s> 13 (because I can't count and Count Dooku is not helping) Days of IrdaRkverse!</p>
<p>Also, look there's art now!</p>
<p>
  
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Irdak had noticed had been the cloak. In his admittedly limited experience of working the upscale side of the Coruscant streets, nobody wore a cloak without being a worthy target of his charms. And he was in sore need of a worthy target since his current sugar daddy was beginning to show the first telltale signs of tiring of him. When the frowns about the wrecked state of the pillows started eclipsing the smiles brought on by remembering how those pillows had got to be as wrecked as they were (and really, that was what you got when you invited a Zabrak into your bed), it was generally time to move on.</p><p>He had a fallback solution, of course, and he kept the business card with the handwritten note on the back in his pocket for emergencies - but if he could stay freelance rather than join an existing establishment, well, he would.</p><p>All told though, that was not the only reason he’d chosen Mr. Cloak as his target. Sure, he’d be happy to run his hands all over the inside lining of that nice drapey fabric in a delicate suggestion of what those hands could do to its wearer. But the man in the cloak was doing things to <i>him</i> already, and he hadn’t even gotten his hands on him yet.</p><p>And that, Irdak was certain, merited further investigation. </p><p>Because amnesiac or not, he’d picked up quickly on the fact that he could make people feel good with more than his admittedly skilled body. And usually, folks were more than appreciative of the extra touch. A select few were capable of reciprocating, and that was always worth the party trick (that one time with the AgriCorps undersecretary had been especially enlightening!), but nobody had yet managed to make his blood tingle quite like this <i>from across several lanes of traffic.</i></p><p>Ah, yes. Good. He was slowing down. Tall guy, long legs. Taller than Irdak himself, which was saying something. For a Zabrak, he was amazingly lanky, although the Healers at the Jedi Temple - the ones who had patched him up out of charity and then slapped an apparently random Zabrak name on him that he might as well keep for all it was worth (it allegedly meant ‘confluence’; personally, he’d wondered if they’d intended it to mean ‘guy who washed up here’) - had told him that that was because he was actually mostly human. Not that your average Coruscanti looked far beyond the cute set of horns on his forehead, and apparently he had managed to acquire at least a partial set of tattoos as well, in the life he’d summarily forgotten. Both of which were good for business because a pretty mostly-Zabrak who would bottom if required was a hot commodity.</p><p>The tall man had slowed to a halt, the colorful foot traffic on the walkway across the Temple City’s premier business district continuing to flow around him. He stood like a rock in his coal-gray cloak, a head of short and perfectly white hair well above the crowd.</p><p>Irdak had to resist the urge to scratch himself all over. He felt like his skin was itching from the inside. Instead, he put on his best come-hither smile, drew himself up to his full height, put a little extra swing into his hips, and went in for the kill.</p><p>The tall man turned around slowly and skewered Irdak on his dark brown gaze.</p><p>And it felt <i>good</i>.</p><p>He’d never felt this much… <i>feeling</i> from someone just looking at him. Like his blood was singing. Like he remembered. Which obviously he didn’t - not even the Jedi healers had managed to patch that part of him back together - but still. His eyes told him the man was old for a human, probably easily three times his own putative age, but he seemed to have no trouble holding himself upright with a regal bearing. The inner lining of his cloak, Irdak thought randomly, matched his eyes. And the inside of his mind matched Irdak’s own in a way that was scary and incredibly attractive at the same time.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“What?” said the stranger, and Irdak had to suppress an altogether unprofessional shiver at how deep that voice went. Deep into the part of him that usually busied itself with making other people feel good. There was a real question in that voice though, and a minute widening of those eyes, as if the strange sense of recognition went both ways. Promising.</p><p>“Would you care for some… company, sir?” Irdak said smoothly, dropping his own voice to a sultry baritone to match his target. “You seem criminally alone for a man of your tastes.”</p><p>A minute smile quirked the man’s thin lips and made the neatly groomed white beard twitch. “Can’t say I’ve been propositioned like that in at least forty years,” he replied coolly. “And my answer is ‘no’. Though I would be interested in your name at least, seeing as you appear bold enough to accost me in the street.” A pause. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to report you to the authorities. I’m just… curious. You remind me of someone.”</p><p>“I… I knew it!” Irdak grinned triumphantly, recognizing enough of the familiar dance of courtship. Of course men of that generation (and, likely, social status) wouldn’t dream of just responding to a simple pick-up in the street. “There’s something special going on here, isn’t there?” He winked. “I know a nice place where we can chat over a drink or two, sir. Get acquainted.” <i>Get my brain caught up with what my body clearly remembers about you</i>, he thought. <i>And get on with the fucking because damn. Old but magnetic, aren’t you?</i></p><p>With hindsight, things had gone downhill from there. Really quickly.</p><p>To an outside observer it would probably have looked innocent enough - the young whore who’s had one or two too many drinks already and was now crawling all over his prospective customer in an effort to make a sale before succumbing to the alcohol and passing out in said prospective customer’s lap - but Irdak had <i>been there</i>, and that was definitely not what had happened.</p><p>He’d had iced tea, for a start.</p><p>And he remembered with crystalline clarity what had happened after the usual awkward introductions: the man professed to being an ex-Jedi - interesting in itself, Irdak had had no idea people left that revered organization alive - whose dead former apprentice had apparently somehow contributed to Irdak’s own genetic pool. Again, file under ‘things you didn’t know about Jedi’. Apparently they fucked around.</p><p>Then, he’d held up one hand, and Irdak’s entire skin had felt like it was ready to combust from the inside. He was choking, in the most pleasurable possible way, gasping for breath, every cell in his body craving the touch of that hand. It had been glorious.</p><p>It had also been the last thing he remembered before waking up here, wherever ‘here’ was. A pretty featureless room. Probably the strange tall ex-Jedi’s base of operations. Dooku, that had been the name he’d given. The name that his singing blood knew was real. <i>Count</i> Dooku. So much for cloak-wearing.</p><p>Irdak was feeling slightly numb, and it took him a while to realize what was causing that. The singing in his blood had stopped, leaving behind a silence he was decidedly not accustomed to. Taking stock of his body, he found himself physically unharmed, fully dressed (well, as fully dressed as he would ever be while working. Dressed enough to not get arrested, anyway.), and outfitted with a collar so thin and elegant it would have passed for kinky jewelry in the circles he typically moved in.</p><p>Not something that would usually have fazed him - the fantasy of the submissive Zabrak boy was common enough for Irdak to have developed a rather effective routine - but there was one piece missing from the picture, and it was the strange Count himself.</p><p>Irdak was alone. And that was just not right.</p><p>He’d just opened his mouth to shout ‘hello?’ when the door to his room opened, and the missing Count Dooku walked in. </p><p>“Apologies for the somewhat rude transport,” he said matter-of-factly, gesturing at the collar. “Getting a Force beacon like you to safety without attracting undue attention is not easily achieved.” He smiled indulgently. “Especially not a rather… clingy one like you.”</p><p>He snapped his fingers, and the collar split open into a snake-like chain that hung limply around the base of Irdak’s neck. The song of his blood returned with overwhelming power and clarity, and his face flowered open in a huge beaming smile. </p><p>“Shall we begin, my young apprentice?” Count Dooku asked softly, and Irdak needed no breath to answer in the affirmative.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day 2: Fuck Yeah, the Force</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Irdak’s head was swimming. Actually, his body also felt like it was swimming, and that was not because his new Master (yes, he insisted on being called that. It was, apparently, a Jedi thing that he hadn’t let go of.) had seen fit to immediately equip him with a set of his own cast-off clothes while custom ones were being made for him. </p>
<p>All right, the boots were a smidge too large. But everything else fitted quite well. It was just… more clothing than he ever remembered wearing. Seriously, the only part of his extensive tattoo collection that was currently visible was a tiny sliver of his neck that peeked over the high collar of an otherwise surprisingly soft but stiff tunic. Something about dressing with dignity. He hadn’t bothered to really remember that part, because there had been so much else going on at the time. </p>
<p>Okay, he had remembered, much to his chagrin, the directive to keep his hair tied up at all times lest it get in the way. More Jedi ways, he supposed. </p>
<p>And then Dooku had opened a floodgate in his head, and the weird power that made him be able to touch people had exploded into something that touched <i>him</i> and swept him away on a wave of sensation so overwhelming that… well, let’s just say that this was the <i>second</i> pair of Dooku’s spare pants that he was currently inhabiting.</p>
<p>That, apparently, was called ‘the Force’. Again, more Jedi stuff, for all that the Count insisted that he was not a Jedi any more but something more powerful that he would learn in time yadda yadda.</p>
<p>The Force, when amplified by an ex-Jedi-who-insists-he’s-not-a-Jedi-any-more, was <i>awesome</i>.</p>
<p>He couldn’t wait for the next lesson, every cell of his skin hyper-aware. The touch of his own hands was a meager substitute, but it would do for now (and he could at least make sure to take his pants off first), until he could catch his breath and persuade his Master into giving in and joining him because if there was one thing better than sex in Irdak’s opinion, it was sex with the Force.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Fuck yes. And he’d been good at it before. Just imagining where this would leave him, a horned sex god with the power of thunderstorms in his hands… frankly, he had no idea why the rest of the world wasn’t prostrating itself at Master Dooku’s feet.</p>
<p>Because he was certainly about to. Ass in the air. Fishing for a nice Force-assisted pounding. </p>
<p>And if he could get these awfully complete clothes ripped off him in the process, even better.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day 4: Damned Duty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had turned out that the thing he was now apprenticed to be was called a Sith.</p>
<p>It had furthermore turned out that while that thing involved extensive communing with the Force, sex was not part of the training regime, and any extracurricular sexual activity was… frowned upon. By one meticulously groomed white eyebrow. Master didn’t even bother to engage his second eyebrow to get his message across.</p>
<p>Not that Irdak was forbidden from pleasuring himself - but Dooku seemed surprisingly immune to his advances, or the desires of his own body.</p>
<p>After two and a half days of more or less well-concealed squirming, Dooku had let out a long-suffering sigh and fixed that dark brown gaze on Irdak in a way that made his insides all warm and gooey. “While I am aware that you crave sexual release with me, Irdak, I would like to remind you that I am, in fact, an old man. And I have no desire to spend the remainder of my days with a broken hip as a result of your overly enthusiastic amorous acrobatics.”</p>
<p>Irdak blinked, then added ‘really long words spoken slowly in <i>that</i> voice’ to the list of things that turned him on. The list was growing by the hour, which was impressive given that the only interaction he had had in the past three days had been with Dooku and assorted holocrons. And books. Old-school records made of paper, and while those in themselves didn’t turn him on, some of the things described in them had. </p>
<p>There was a lot to be gained from being a Sith, apparently. Longevity being one thing (which explained why Count Dooku was still a Count to be counted on at the age of eighty), and the ability to feed off the life force inherent in other beings being another. Also, mind control? He was a bit hazy on that one, and privately suspected that was because of mind control. He wouldn’t put it past Dooku to impose a kind of mental chastity belt on him during study hours. And that thought once again came perilously close to turning him on.</p>
<p>See above: the list just kept getting longer.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Sithing - for want of a better word - had its physical components too, mind, and Irdak had to admit he lived for those parts of his day, when Dooku released him from his bookish duties to drill him in basic weapons skills. Most of which, it had to be said, felt suspiciously Jedi-ish, at least from what he had seen in the popular holodramas. Finding himself with an actual lightsaber in his hand had caused him to grin broadly and create a wild fireworks display of swishy orange arcs in the air around him.</p>
<p>Finding himself moments later, on his back, breathing heavily and with an actual lightsaber pointed at his throat while Dooku hadn’t even broken a sweat had… well, it had resulted in an even broader grin. <i>Old man, my ass</i>. He was sure his Master was just playing hard to get. And playing it extremely well, it had to be said. Fanning the flames of Irdak’s youthful infatuation into something as deep and richly dark as the very edges of Dooku’s lightsaber blade. In those moments, he felt <i>extremely</i> red inside, and more alive than he ever remembered feeling.</p>
<p>He’d taken to simply leaving his tunic off after a particularly enlightening training bout, and so far Dooku hadn’t seen fit to rebuke him. Irdak ran hot anyway, and when the custom-made clothing had finally arrived from the expensive tailor who had doubtless produced Dooku’s own flawless wardrobe, Irdak had dutifully stored it all away in the storage chest in what was now his room, and proceeded to wear almost none of it. </p>
<p>All right, some of it. But not in the way it had been intended by said tailor. Pants, yes. Necessary if only to shield private parts from lightsaber burns. Tunics, definitely not. None of them. As far as he was concerned, he was wearing a perfectly acceptable torso tattoo (still incomplete, more’s the pity) and was prepared to argue said case as a matter of Zabrak civil rights.</p>
<p>And the cloak, softer and less stiff than Dooku’s, had taken up residence on his hips, held in place by a clunky holster belt that he had liberated from the armory and which served to heighten the elegant sweep of said hips. The cloak, skirt, whatever, swished maddeningly as he strutted along the corridors of his new home, caressing his sadly still clad legs and nicely emphasizing his height. </p>
<p>All of which of course stopped working entirely the moment Dooku turned around to look at him. Several inches taller, ramrod straight and devoid of any degree of swish, it took one withering look from his Master to remind Irdak that where Dooku was concerned, sex was merely an accessory to duty, a trifling pastime for the apprentice Sith, to be indulged in as an exercise in connection with the Force but by no means to get in the way of the actual work of being a Sith.</p>
<p>Which, apparently, involved getting really close with the Force (which occasionally still resulted in rather unplanned orgasms if he wasn’t careful), getting really fast with a lightsaber (the words ‘hopeless case’ had been uttered, though not more than twice so far, after which Irdak had reminded Dooku that he had at least a decade of catching up to do on his mythical predecessor apprentice), and getting really smart with the rich and powerful in the galaxy.</p>
<p>Now that part he knew he could handle. And that part was probably why Dooku indulged his creativity as far as looks were concerned. Because as far as <i>Irdak</i> was concerned, his skin was his number one weapon, followed closely by his hands. Possibly his tongue. Cock, obviously. Okay, and horns. It was amazing what one could do with horns given the right approach and audience.</p>
<p>Pity, then, that most of the rich and powerful that Dooku saw fit to unleash Irdak on were confined to the pages of books.</p>
<p>Galactic history was, apparently, a prerequisite to successful Sithing. </p>
<p>Irdak suppressed a yawn and doodled another tattoo design in the margins of the doubtless ancient tome he had been tasked with absorbing, fantasizing about the day he would be released back into the wild, equipped with a red lightsaber, an awesome set of Force skills, and a new name with a Sithy “th” in it somewhere. </p>
<p>He would make his Master proud. And then, hopefully, he would make his Master… do other things. To him. Yes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Day 5: Galactic History</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Galactic history became surprisingly more three-dimensional the moment Dooku entrusted him with his own HoloNet terminal. With no parental controls installed.</p>
<p>Amazingly, Irdak found himself going for several hours without even thinking of looking for porn. And then he only thought of looking for porn because the results of his actual, well, <i>research</i> had led him to rather unexpected hot springs.</p>
<p>He had discovered not only an unauthorized access channel into the Jedi archives, but also a certain <i>connection</i>... but more on that later. First, he had done that thing that every new user in a freshly opened data mine did: look for information on himself. </p>
<p>Predictably, there hadn't been any, probably because the meager medical records the Jedi had bothered to set up on him had not been deemed important, or indeed public, enough, to make it into the main archive. He had, however, found a rich seam of information on both his genetic original, Dooku’s mythical first apprentice, and on the one who had made him.</p>
<p>To his surprise, they had not been the same person at all. </p>
<p>His original, the source of most of his genetic material, had been a human named Qui-Gon Jinn. Tall and hairy and with a rebellious streak (or maybe he <i>enjoyed</i> arguing with the Jedi Council? He had to admit the Force did weird things to him so it was imaginable that Jedi got off on debating. They certainly seemed to do a lot of it.), he had been a Jedi Master by the time he’d been killed on an offworld mission eight years ago. By a Zabrak, no less. A <i>Sith</i> Zabrak. Irdak made a mental note to ask his Master about that some time. For now, that made two sets of boots for him to fill.</p>
<p>And this Qui-Gon Jinn had not, in fact, been his genetic original in the way most humans would be, by having sex with some other genetic original and producing, well, offspring. Not that Irdak would have assumed that, given Jinn’s fairly extensivly documented sexual proclivities (almost exclusively homosexual when it came to humanoids, and submissive, with a, well, flourishing sideline in plant shenanigans. Interesting.) - between that and the Healers’ pronouncement that he was in fact 68% Jinn DNA as opposed to the expected 50%, Irdak knew there was something other than sex involved in his creation. </p>
<p>That turned out to be actually documented in a mission report - and though the rogue geneticist in question had been female, her interest had been in Jinn’s Force sensitivity rather than his rugged good looks. The sticky result had been the same, of course, and spliced into a particularly hardy strain of stem cells derived from four Dathomiri females nicknamed the Four Mothers, had given rise to, well, him. </p>
<p>He had no idea what a rogue geneticist could want with a random Jedi clone with horns, but there it was. Someone had made him. And then managed to lose him.</p>
<p>Upon further reading, the someone that had made him had turned out to be a disappointing retread of the Mad Scientist trope, rising as far as multiple genocide before sinking into the arms of galactic law enforcement and, according to the database, perishing quite recently in a mysterious prison riot in the internment camp she had called home for the last decade of her life. </p>
<p>So much for his parents, then. </p>
<p>The fun part had been researching his <i>Master’s</i> past. Which was unexpectedly enriched by the discovery that his extensive access to the Jedi Archives was owed to a rather sweet dalliance between his Master and the Master Archivist. Some of the passwords still in place would have made Irdak blush had he been genetically able to.</p>
<p>And Master Dooku had been <i>hot</i> as a young Jedi. Impeccably groomed just as he was now, with dark hair to match his eyes and the flexible grace of a skinny metal blade, he had managed to make even the drab Jedi browns, designed for comfort and practicability, look elegant. </p>
<p>The files got sparser the further back he progressed along Master Dooku’s impressively long timeline, but one treasure stood out among the mission reports and personnel file photos and lightsaber competition videos: evidently recorded at a clandestine social event among young Knights and senior apprentices, the file, labeled with one of the aforementioned blushworthy passwords, was a shaky video recording of Master Dooku, then likely Knight or Padawan Dooku, (“Yann”, according to some impassioned shouting from his audience. So Master Dooku <i>did</i> have a first name.) regaling an appreciative audience of a few neatly-appointed Jedi heads with a full-throated rendition of a rather bawdy drinking song.</p>
<p>Sharply delivered lyrics and well-placed decidedly un-Jedi-like smirks aside, <i>the man could sing</i>. Irdak blinked several times, then replayed the file. Several more times.</p>
<p>Really, who needed commercial pornography when the Jedi Temple archives held treasures like this one?</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Day 8: Growing Pains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had taken only a few more days to put two and two together, because for all that Irdak was allegedly a hopeless case when it came to lightsaber fighting, he wasn’t born yesterday. Well, no. Given his deplorable state of amnesia, he had in fact been born something like five months ago but that was neither here nor there. He was a smart kid, and he knew it. </p>
<p>And, apparently, a really really Force-sensitive kid.</p>
<p>It sang to him. It swirled around him and pumped him full of power and vertigo and sensation in his shared meditations with his Master, and it connected to his Master on a deep physical level that, at least according to some of his assigned reading, had to do with microscopic life forms in his bloodstream. Ones that had previously belonged to a dead Jedi renowned for his connection to ‘the Living Force’. (Who also, apparently, fucked plants as a result. Irdak had no plans to imitate that part of his notorious ancestor’s skill set. Sentients were so much more fun to play with.)</p>
<p>Anyway, the Living Force made things grow. And live. And he was <i>shockingly</i> attuned to it. Shakily, too, but that would even out with time and training, surely. </p>
<p>What a weapon.</p>
<p>The doodles in the margins of his study materials (he had switched to sketching on his actual notepaper rather than on the pages of the ancient books) had expanded to scenes of yet-to-be-named Sith Irdak binding his enemies in powerful vines before gently sucking the life out of them. The doodled Sith Lord Irdak also sported a full set of tattoos in a rather more aggressive shade of brown than his current ones, and slightly more impressive horns.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>And that had actually been what had sent him down that particular rabbit hole. </p>
<p>It took a bit of rearranging of his schedule, and a bit of speed-reading and imaginative summarizing of the history of the Sith Wars (so what if there hadn’t been any Zabrak generals in them? Dooku wasn’t old enough to have been around for them either!), but he’d finally managed to finagle some unsupervised ‘meditation’ time. He’d set up a mirror just to be sure, and divested himself of all his clothes just to be comfortable.</p>
<p>Crossing his legs and resting his hands on his thighs, Irdak let himself sink into the Force, the tendrils of his mind spreading out to grasp its wild and powerful currents. Trying to manipulate the insanely delicious roar of the Living Force was like trying to pinch off a grain of salt from a krayt dragon’s tail… difficult, but worth the wild ride. </p>
<p>And if it all went sideways, well, he was only harming himself. </p>
<p>Carefully, forcing himself to release the tension that kept building up in his shoulders and thighs over and over, Irdak approached the dragon’s tail, homing in on tiny tendrils of Living Force as they slipped through his mental grasp, leaving a tingling rush in their wake. Not this one, then. The next one. Breathe. Relax. Again.</p>
<p>He had lost count of how many times the Living Force had slipped through his mental fingertips when that one time, it didn’t. Curled around his hand like a tiny tentacle, suckering its way up his forearm. He let it, encouraging it gently. <i>Good Living Force, keep going. Follow the tattoo.</i></p>
<p>The tingling intensified as he let it creep up his arm, shoulder, up the side of his neck. <i>Scalp</i>, he thought. <i>All yours. Make yourself at home.</i></p>
<p>Irdak shivered as he felt a physical sensation spread all over the roots of his hair. <i>Yes, go on. Horns too. Same thing.</i></p>
<p>The jolt of pleasure as the electric suction encircled the sensitive skin at the base of his horns almost jerked him out of his meditation. <i>No… just a little more…</i> </p>
<p>It was no use. It slipped from his grasp, squirming away at the thrust of his hips as if it had been slapped. He felt a wetness on his scalp as if an egg had been cracked under the roots of his hair, and reached up to feel what was going on.</p>
<p>He felt nothing amiss, certainly no wetness. Good. No blood. And his hair felt normal. Well, almost normal. Softer? He frowned, and that felt different too. Like the balance of his forehead was ever so slightly off. Alarmed, he turned to the mirror. And his eyes went round.</p>
<p>There was at least a hand’s length of new growth at the roots of his hair. Soft straight natural hair, not yet twisted and matted into his customary dreads. But it was not that, and the promise of scheduling more hours of hair care around his Sith training, that had made Irdak gape. </p>
<p>His horns had also grown to nearly twice their original length. </p>
<p>No more cute stubby half-Zabrak horns for him, no sir. This was an impressive full set (well, he’d have to investigate under his hair once he’d regained his balance), well worthy of a warrior. They’d darkened at the tips too, as if they’d been on his head for a couple of years already and been spattered in the blood of many a dangerous foe.</p>
<p>He smirked at his reflection. <i>I can grow things. Fuck, that’s amazing.</i> He swallowed and let out a shaky breath. <i>Also, I’m hot. Wait until Master sees.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Day 9: Into the Weeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Master Dooku’s reaction had been less than Irdak had hoped. Although, all told, his fantasy of breaking through the old man’s iron self-control was slipping through his fingers with each day he spent in Dooku’s company. The eyebrow had bounced up and down exactly once in reaction to his new horns and hair, and a brief nod had acknowledged wordlessly that the apprentice’s Force manipulation skills were coming along, if not in the traditionally prescribed ways.</p>
<p>At least that’s what Irdak hoped that nod had meant. Master could be annoyingly economical with his voice. Which was doubly disappointing given how rich and sonorous it sounded.</p>
<p>He had no idea how to entice Master Dooku to sing. Much less moan in ecstasy. Maybe one had to be young to want to do such things?</p>
<p>Then again, what was growth if not using the Living Force to make a specific set of tissues go forward in time? Maybe, with more practice and skill… yes, this required more reading.</p>
<p>He <i>was</i> a bright kid after all.</p>
<p>That night, after as much reading as he could manage on his sleep schedule, Irdak settled into his naked meditation pose with a companion. He snorted softly at how this made him look perilously close to his plant-loving Jedi ancestor, then settled the weed on his left thigh, its moist roots blending effortlessly into the brown of his thigh tattoo. It was a hardy one, plucked from between two flagstones in the older part of the District, a thick sprig of deep green leaves and a skinny stalk that looked like it was about to erupt into a thoroughly unimpressive flower. Good enough for an experiment.</p>
<p>The Force’s dragon sniffed at him haughtily and turned its tail, engulfing him in a wave of sensation that buffeted him about like surf, abrading his skin. <i>Shhhh,</i> he thought breathlessly, <i>I’ve got something for you.</i></p>
<p>It hadn’t even occurred to him that imagining the Living Force as a krayt dragon meant that he was, in effect, attempting to feed one of the galaxy’s most feared predators a small leafy vegetable.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>But here he was… and here was the tiny bright spark of life in the plant, almost too small to balance on his mental fingertip and spread into a smear of iridescence with his thumb. Gently, he blew the life-dust off his thumb into the direction of the dragon. It inhaled on a huff, sucking his fingertips clean.</p>
<p>Irdak tumbled back to reality, and the weed had gone. <i>Well, so much for that.</i> </p>
<p>He sighed. Growing things in the natural direction of growth was one thing apparently (and there were definitely plans in his mind somewhere for fine-tuning that skill and growing some decent arm muscles because damn, even lightsabers got heavy after a while), but redirecting the life force out of a life form and effectively making it un-grow was infinitely harder. And not something he would even suggest to Master Dooku until he’d had the technique down.</p>
<p>With a sigh, Irdak levered himself off the floor and crawled under the covers, the dream of a rejuvenated Master Dooku spooning up behind him once again relegated to an uncertain future.</p>
<p>It wouldn’t be until days later that Irdak spotted the tiny yellowish germ sticking up from his meditation mat where the seed had fallen. He watered it with the dregs of his tea and settled in to Force-nudge it into revealing itself. </p>
<p>Moments later, Irdak’s lap was covered in thick green leaves, a rude small blue weed flower poking at his nose. </p>
<p>
  <i>Well hello there. Nice to see you again.</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Day 15: Under the Skin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two weeks into his apprenticeship, Irdak had apparently merited his first day off. Predictably, he had used it to sneak back into his old hunting grounds, liberate what material possessions were left behind at his previous, uh, employer’s home (it had paid off to stash his spare credit chips in a hair ornament that was less likely to just be thrown away), and generally have a good time. </p>
<p>Since he now came with extra credits and a full set of horns, he decided to celebrate by expanding his woefully asymmetrical tattoo. Almost the entire right-hand side of his chest and back were bare, and that just would not do. Not with his dreads now almost touching his butt and his horns standing tall and proud. </p>
<p>He’d actually slipped into one of his never-worn tunics for the trip downtown, almost embarrassed to present such an incomplete set of tattoos to the world now that the rest of him was well on the road to general badassery.</p>
<p>The artist on duty at the tattoo shop had whistled appreciatively as Irdak had pulled the silky shirt off over his head. “Hadn’t expected this much leeway, buddy. History, I assume?”</p>
<p>Irdak nodded grimly, secretly enjoying playing the fledgling Sith Lord. Or former Nightbrother. Or mob enforcer. Or whatever else was playing behind the wide gray eyes of the tattoo artist. Behind the emerging credit symbols in those eyes, because that was a <i>lot</i> of skin to cover. Perfectly smooth, resilient, unbruisable Zabrak skin. The artist licked his lips.</p>
<p>“Are we going for symmetry here? The traditional route? I notice your shading is a bit… all over the place.” He pointed at the warmer rosewood color of the designs around his hearts, so much lighter than the blackish brown that ran down his ribs, and again so much more like the heavily shaded but warm-colored side of his neck. </p>
<p>“That is intentional,” Irdak replied evenly. “As you may have noticed, I have inherited the rather flat natural coloring of my mother’s side of the family.” He allowed himself a small snort. <i>Should read: mothers’, plural</i>. “Thought I would make it more interesting. More like a birthmark. A very elaborate and, yes, symmetrical birthmark.”</p>
<p>“Got it,” the artist replied with a smile. “Symmetry it is. Want the coloring symmetrical too, or should we keep to the natural, all over the place theme here?”</p>
<p>“Do what you think is best, my man.”</p>
<p>A pair of bushy eyebrows jumped. “Not something you hear a lot from your kind.”</p>
<p>Irdak smiled sharply. “I’m not your average Zabrak.”</p>
<p>“Obviously.” The man shook his head, grinning. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Zabrak-style tattoos are a huge thing… but I can’t say I’ve ever had the honor of putting one on an actual Zabrak. They don’t tend to go for human tattoo artists really.”</p>
<p>“Feel free to fill in your own reasons for why I’m currently not in a position to travel to Dathomir,” Irdak said with what he hoped was just enough generous menace in his voice. “Congratulations, you’ve landed your first Zabrak.”</p>
<p>“Nice.” The artist stretched his fingers. “Awesome canvas.” He ran a callused hand over the smooth ivory planes of Irdak’s untattooed half. “Now, if it’s true what they say about your kind’s pain tolerance, we could start right away and get to about here today.” He outlined an area stretching from Irdak’s existing heart circle to the join of shoulder and neck. “And I’ll be happy to pencil you in for a weekly or fortnightly session if your schedule allows. Until we’ve got you fully covered.” His smile was businesslike but broad.</p>
<p>“I have a feeling you will see rather a lot of me over the next few months,” Irdak said, stretching out on the recliner.</p>
<p>“There <i>is</i> rather a lot of you,” the artist replied. “You might wind up with the largest acreage of Zabrak tattoos in existence because I haven’t yet met one as tall as you.”</p>
<p>“Count yourself lucky, then,” Irdak growled. <i>Oh, this is fun.</i> He found he was rather getting into this whole dominant Sith Lord swagger. <i>Maybe I’ll even go full facial. Definitely dark undersides to the arms. And the next session… thighs.</i></p>
<p>Credits duly exchanged, Irdak let himself sink into the sensation of the needles jabbing ink into his skin. Of course he had nowhere near a full-blooded Zabrak’s pain tolerance… but he had the Force now, and it was only too happy to lap up the sharp stabs of pain and turn them into something bright and urgent and threatening. It still hurt like fuck, but it was <i>powerful</i>, and that went a long way.</p>
<p>Irdak made a mental note to draft the facial tattoo in such a way that tears could run off unencumbered by the artist’s machinations, then lost himself in the brutal waves of the Force.</p>
<p>Which was why he almost missed her. Would have missed her completely if she hadn’t been looking in the direction she’d come from - a room at the back of the tattoo parlor - and not in the direction she’d been going, and consequently bumped into Irdak’s foot which was stretched out rather farther than the end of the recliner, patently in everyone’s way.</p>
<p>“Hey!” That was the artist’s voice, jerking Irdak out of his pain-drenched reverie. “Careful who you’re kicking, lady. This one jumps while I’ve got my needles in him, I’ve got one hell of a cover-up on my hands!”</p>
<p>“Sorry.” The woman’s voice was tight, too quiet. Irdak let his eyes drift open. And then he did almost jump.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>The resemblance was almost too much. He <i>had</i> seen that face before… but she was supposed to be dead?</p>
<p>He was almost ready to write the fleeting encounter off as a hallucination when someone bumped into his other foot, this time deliberately. Cold turquoise eyes bored into his, a wordless threat as the man - ‘thug’ was the best description that sprang to mind - took one good look at him and then turned on his heel and marched out the door after the woman.</p>
<p>Later that day, newly sore skin patched up with bacta and HoloNet terminal fired up, his attempts at confirming his suspicion were rather more successful than he’d hoped, and he cursed softly through his teeth.</p>
<p>His Maker. Notorious genocidal geneticist Jenna Zan Arbor (give or take some hair). Was alive. And on Coruscant. </p>
<p>Even later that day, breaking the news to Master Dooku had earned him a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder that took all his concentration to not make him wince because ow, fresh tattoo. It had also earned him the balm of his Master’s voice, filled with pride.</p>
<p>“Looks like you have earned yourself your first mission, my young apprentice.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Day 18: A Sith Sunrise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His first mission. Under his belt. </p>
<p>Irdak couldn’t help noticing his hand shaking a little as he hooked a thumb into said belt and headed out of what would have been his prospective place of employment had he not… changed careers rather suddenly. </p>
<p>The Wookiee doorman growled something at him, and he leaned in close to murmur in the hairy creature’s ear.</p>
<p>“I think the interview went well, yes. Client’s out cold. One too many climaxes, I imagine. I assume it’s a ‘we’ll call you’ type of situation, so… they know where to find me.”</p>
<p>As he stepped outside into the harsh air of Coruscant’s mid levels, Irdak hoped like hell they <i>didn’t</i> know where to find him. He flagged down a droid taxi, casually flung his cloak over the security cam in the back before getting in, and used his… client’s credit chip to pay for it.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>He also had it drop him off quite a ways from his actual destination and chose to walk the rest of the way. It was amazing what being fully dressed did to his visibility: between the enveloping clothing worthy of a Jedi and the fact that he had in fact braided back his hair and piled it on top of his head to the point of nearly obscuring his horns altogether, he could have been any random desert-dweller out touristing. He forced himself to slow his step and look around.</p>
<p>Nobody looked back. He grinned. </p>
<p>To think that days ago, the thought of taking another’s life would have horrified him. Well, no. It still awed him, but it had fallen into place in the greater picture. And for the greater picture, the continued existence of this stain upon humanity was decidedly suboptimal. </p>
<p>He had actually, under layers of jittery excitement and cover persona, taken a small amount of pleasure in being the one to end that existence.</p>
<p>Now, walking the last mile to his and his Master’s secret base, Irdak let the Force sing around him in all its blood-colored glory. He had contributed one small strand to the grand tapestry of Duty, towards righting the wrongs of the galaxy and if not healing, then at least binding up the rifts that ran through it, between the Sith and the Jedi, between the rich core worlds and the wilds of the Outer Rim, between the all-consuming Senate bureaucracy and the souls they were supposed to be the stewards of.</p>
<p>He had iron cords to bind those rifts with, and a light blade to cut away the cancers. And he was learning how to use them.</p>
<p>He took a detour to his room before facing his Master. Took a minute to kneel on the floor where he had left the mirror in place from last week’s experiment. He knew that there would be no outward change visible once he let his hair down and let his horns out. There would be no blood spatter anointing the side of his face, proclaiming him to be a wielder of great power.</p>
<p>There would be no mark of the Force user on his forehead, and his Master would ensure that whatever tattoo design ended up there would not scream ‘Sith’ because that kind of advertising was anathema to the stiff old Count.</p>
<p>Still, there was something, and it took him by surprise entirely: his eyes glowed a dull warm amber, like distant suns where there had previously been perfectly ordinary blue eyes.</p>
<p>Well, that would be harder to conceal. He blinked, but the glow remained. Unnerving when you were used to your eyes being duller, darker. </p>
<p>He glared at himself in the mirror, and found himself recoiling a little from the intensity of it. </p>
<p>Unbidden, he imagined his inscrutable Master with eyes of blazing gold, and his own lit up a little in recognition. Of course, he knew his Master’s eyes to be brown, but then… he was a Master. Irdak wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Master Dooku simply chose to control his eye color and appear as unremarkably human as humanly possible. <i>Maybe that’s why he chose such a flamboyant apprentice,</i> Irdak thought with a small smile. <i>I’m excellent cover.</i></p>
<p>“The Mark of the Sith. Well, well.”</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Irdak cursed under his breath at letting himself be distracted enough not to notice Master Dooku sneaking in. Of course, Master Dooku would be a master of sneaking in as well, height and age notwithstanding. <i>If he can mask his eye color, he can mask all manner of sins. Damn it.</i> Yep, train of thought derailed again. Privately, he suspected that this was the Force testing him. Or just perversely enjoying making him horny at the most inappropriate moments.</p>
<p>“I take it the mission was a success, then?” Dooku continued smoothly. </p>
<p>Irdak glowed golden with pride and the urgent, honey-gold-thick need to touch. He nodded slowly, letting a satisfied smile spread across his handsome features, then delicately licked along the length of one finger of his left hand, adding the echo of the salty musk there to the maelstrom of seduction pooling in him.</p>
<p>“She died happy,” he purred, skipping the recap of ruse and plan and <i>mission</i> and jumping straight to reliving the heady feeling of his left hand buried between his Maker’s thighs while his right summarily cut off her breath just as she tumbled over the edge of orgasm, the scream dying in her crushed throat. </p>
<p>“You are glowing.” A small smile pulled at the corner of Dooku’s mouth. “In time, you will learn to control such outbursts. But for now, I am pleased.” </p>
<p>He laid one long elegant hand on Irdak’s shoulder, its warmth easily penetrating the layers of disguise, all the way to his recently-inked skin. And for a brief moment, a pair of incandescent suns appeared above Master Dooku’s smile, and Irdak’s hearts jumped with how intense the light in them was. </p>
<p>Then the warm brown descended in Dooku’s eyes again, and the hand withdrew. </p>
<p>“Of course, I expect a full written mission report by end of day tomorrow.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Day 26: Always Two, There Are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aaaand there went another glossy fashion magazine down the trash chute into the incinerator. Irdak made a mental note to find out just where that chute went, otherwise busy tuning out his Master’s latest tirade about appropriate study materials for a Sith. </p>
<p>The first time, he’d argued back, citing the need to be up to speed with the styles of the rich and pretty of the capital world in service to his missions, but all that had led to was a dark glower from Dooku who had wordlessly reached out one hand and snatched the magazine from his apprentice’s hand with the Force. He suspected that it was only Dooku’s ingrained sense of propriety that stopped him from stooping so low as to actually set fire to the vile publication.</p>
<p>Irdak had, of course, immediately switched to ordering two copies, and ensuring that he was always the one who got the mail in. </p>
<p>Now, nestled safely inside a copy of the latest Galactic History textbook, the latest issue of <i>Coruscant Bazaar</i> awaited conscientious study. And while his savings would nowhere near cover the glamorous high-fashion outfits he saw paraded in its pages, he had <i>something</i> to work with: the clothes Dooku had had made for him were all of superior quality and would almost certainly withstand some heavy modification to make them more… Irdak-appropriate. And then there was the tattoo budget, of course.</p>
<p>The next chunk of that had gone towards a wide garter of near-black bands encircling his thigh, bringing out the lean muscles there and hinting at the possibility of a weapon strapped to that long leg… or a barely-there stocking stretching over the pale painted skin. </p>
<p>Irdak smiled as he leafed through the pages, soaking up the beauty and creativity of it all. He had ideas. And suggestions. And materials. And above all, a functioning comm terminal that would transmit pictures without even blinking.</p>
<p>He also had a sturdy-looking houseplant in a disturbingly permanent state of being just about to explode into its first flowering, and a moth that was in the middle of laboring its way out of its chrysalis, no doubt eager to spend the night fluttering around Irdak’s desk lamp as it did every night, with a dim memory of how it had done that the night before too, before it had been born, and the night before that. </p>
<p>He was getting better at timing its birth to the exact minute, fine-tuning the pinch of salty life he siphoned off every morning. It would only be a matter of days now before he would reveal his findings to his Master. </p>
<p>Letting his gaze wander across the glossy pages of the magazine, he wondered for the hundredth time just what age to suggest to Master Dooku.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Day 30: Color Changes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I find that <i>very</i> hard to believe, Irdak.” </p>
<p>Dooku’s voice was stern but focused, and Irdak had to resist a passing urge to slink to his knees and focus some of himself on making that voice do rather less dignified things. But he had a mission. Well, he had a mission that came <i>before</i> the slinking and noisemaking.</p>
<p>“Totally understandable, Master.” Irdak smiled his infectious smile, and got an answering twitch in the corner of Dooku’s eye. An eye still wholly focused on the moth struggling its way out of the cocoon it had spent the night in.</p>
<p>“I won’t presume to claim I found this new skill… it’d be more accurate to say it found me.” Irdak shrugged. “The Force moves in mysterious ways. Or maybe it just figured out what I wanted and decided to give it to me.”</p>
<p>Dooku raised one snowy eyebrow. “You wanted an immortal moth as a pet?”</p>
<p>Irdak snorted, amused. “That would be a bit high-maintenance. Although if you wait another few moments, you will see evidence of it having retained its adult knowledge from… past lives, as it were. It’s going to go straight to the tea cup on my desk to feed.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Dooku replied tersely. “Your infernal penchant for sweetening green tea is well understood. A taste you share with <i>insects</i>, it seems. And second only to your tendency to scatter nuts everywhere as you ‘snack’ while studying. Sith are <i>not</i> messy eaters, Irdak.”</p>
<p>“Anyway.” Irdak swallowed the tirade and pushed another smile at his Master. “I know you’re more than intelligent enough to understand what that means.”</p>
<p>“I do,” Dooku said wearily. “My only regret is that I would have to entrust myself to <i>you</i> to do it, my green apprentice.”</p>
<p>“We can start small?” Irdak suggested hopefully, the prospect of a spry, young, musically-inclined, and <i>sexy</i> Master giving him courage. “As you can see, I have been honing my skill on rather small amounts of space and time, so we could target a small and comparatively insignificant area of your body…?”</p>
<p>“I’d be curious to know,” Dooku said cautiously, “what part of my body you would consider insignificant, Irdak.”</p>
<p>“Well…” Irdak hazarded. “I’m pretty sure your beard would qualify.” He shrugged. “It looks cool white, would look cool black too, and if I fuck up royally and turn it bright orange, you can just… shave?”</p>
<p>Dooku frowned thunderously, and Irdak felt a frisson of heat coursing up his spine imagining those imperious brows in their original dark coloring. </p>
<p>“I can assure you there was no point in time that my facial hair was ever any color other than its natural one,” Dooku informed him sternly. “That sort of… fashion statement was not the Jedi way. And I believe it still isn’t.”</p>
<p><i>More’s the pity</i>, Irdak thought privately. <i>Getting the Jedi to loosen up a bit would be a worthy cause.</i> But he knew that that would not be a Sithly mission that Master Dooku had any interest in.</p>
<p>“Understood,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “So we should be safe, then?”</p>
<p>Reluctantly, Dooku nodded and settled into a meditation pose on Irdak’s bed. Fully clothed, of course.</p>
<p>
  <i>All right, krayt dragon. Don’t fail me now.</i>
</p>
<p>As the spray of salt grains scattered into the storms of the Force, Irdak allowed himself a whoop of triumph. Facing him sat an otherwise unchanged, stony-faced Master Dooku, his eyes opening on a cool stare as if to read the results of their little experiment from Irdak’s features. </p>
<p>He also sported a neat, almost completely black beard that shaded into an impressive five o’clock shadow and perfectly framed a pair of surprisingly lush lips.</p>
<p>A split second later, Dooku found himself the recipient - no, <i>victim</i> would be a better word given the violent nature of the assault - of an extremely insistent kiss. The kind of kiss that made it quite clear that there was nothing the kisser would rather do right now than eat up the mouth in question. And any small sounds of protest that might slip out in the process.</p>
<p>“I’d say that was a success.” Irdak leaned back and made a show of licking his lips. “Force, yes. You even <i>taste</i> younger. And pink is a good color on you.”</p>
<p>Dooku did not need to take recourse to the mirror to ascertain that the pink was not an aberration in the tint of his facial hair but in fact a fairly accurate description of the blush coloring his cheeks. </p>
<p>He hadn’t blushed like this in decades. And it felt… nice?</p>
<p>He found himself yanked back into the Force by his overeager apprentice, only to emerge an indefinite amount of time later feeling drained, slightly dazed, and lighter and more… bendy, for want of a better word, than he’d felt in a long time. </p>
<p>It had been a bumpy ride, and he thought he’d heard Irdak scream at one point, but… no, Irdak was still there, seated opposite him in a meditation pose. Positively vibrating with pride.</p>
<p>Dooku stared at his hands in disbelief. The liver spots and gnarled knuckles had gone, leaving smooth, barely wrinkled skin and elegant long fingers. He was halfway off the bed to check for the mirror when he noticed two things. No, three things.</p>
<p>The first was that jumping off the bed required rather less effort than he’d put into it. That coupled with the fact that he appeared to have gained about an inch of his original height back left him a little unsteady on his feet. </p>
<p>The third thing left him rather more unsteady on his feet, but it did explain a lot about the bumpy ride and the Irdak scream. </p>
<p>“Did you just lose your grip on about forty years of age and drop them on an unsuspecting <i>walnut kernel</i>?!”</p>
<p>He knew Irdak was genetically unable to blush, but the soft chuckle surrounding his apprentice like a faint pink aura spoke volumes. “Oops?” he said, directing a brilliant smile at the massive walnut tree that had taken up residence in the corner of his room, summarily smashing the desk behind which its seed had been dropped in a nocturnal snacking/studying session.</p>
<p>Dooku kept his eyes closed, because he suspected he would not be able to focus on properly chastising his wayward apprentice once he allowed the mirror to show him what he was already feeling in his bones. </p>
<p>“You realize that the soles of your feet will match your tattoos for as long as you continue to live in this room. And I will expect you to keep the mess confined <i>to</i> this room.”</p>
<p>“Gladly,” Irdak said. “Now open your eyes and behold a handsome Sith Master.”</p>
<p>Dooku did. And the involuntary flash of gold in those eyes told Irdak all he needed to know about whether or not their little experiment had been a success.</p>
<p>Just to be sure, Irdak proceeded to verify and re-verify the data, making ample use of hands, lips, and tongue, as well as the new addition to his room’s general layout.</p>
<p>A sturdy walnut tree was just the thing to crush a freshly rejuvenated Master against.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Day 63: It's Not The Brown Font</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had finally come in, and he had dutifully delivered it to Master Dooku’s inbox, primed for its brief but exciting ride down the trash chute. The second copy sat tucked into the waistband of his skirt, snug against his bottom, getting warmed up for later enjoyment.</p>
<p>Irdak didn’t rush through the day’s tasks, but he didn’t exactly dawdle either. He knew he could have taken a sneak peek at any time, could even just have brought up the digital issue on his HoloNet terminal as an incentive to his Sith studies… but he wanted alone time, and a physical copy, to savor this first step in his very own unsanctioned but definitely Sithly mission.</p>
<p>He whistled softly as he came to the first double-page spread. <i>Nice layout. Someone gets my vision here.</i> Even the typography matched, a gently understated but sharp font that softly sang a dark melody despite being a warm deep brown rather than the forbidding black he had insisted had no business being anywhere in the spread but in his clothing choices.</p>
<p><i>Nice clothing choices too of course.</i> Then again, as an ‘exotic’ feature not affiliated with any corporation or known entity, he’d been given pretty much free pick of the <i>Bazaar</i>’s latest offerings from the core worlds’ top fashion houses. Well, mostly the rejects that the reputable models wouldn’t be seen anywhere near. And the sections that could have been labeled ‘bizarre’ rather than ‘Bazaar’.</p>
<p>It was amazing what some well-placed eye makeup and… <i>straps</i> could do to heighten an incomplete set of Zabrak tattoos. Irdak was mighty pleased.</p>
<p>Staring back at him from the pages of <i>Coruscant Bazaar</i> was the new rising star of ‘Sith Style’, all smoky golden eyes, fractured beauty, and wicked smiles. </p>
<p>All right, the digital issue was even more impressive. It was less the short video snippets (although yes, <i>swish</i> described Irdak’s hips rather well, in the same sharp chocolate font) than the subscriber comments. And the forums. </p>
<p>Oh, the forums. Irdak was decidedly late to his own party, the glittery parts of the HoloNet well lit up with comments already about the “hot Zabrak babe”. The “sizzling Sith boy”. Enterprising young ladies were already sharing tutorials about how to achieve the intense dark-rimmed eye, and where to get the necessary contact lenses for that golden-eyed look… and a thriving subculture was discussing, in graphic detail, what they would love to do to the elegant garter tattoo peeking out from the slit in his floor-length skirt.</p>
<p>It was down that particular rabbit hole, in a thread involving adding <i>more</i> leather straps to a particular outfit but with much more of a view to restraining rather than adorning “that lithe horned sex god”, that Irdak started noticing the user names and server addresses. </p>
<p>Rather similar ones. Only a few of them had been bold enough to include avatar pictures, and they managed to match the ivory-and-brown color scheme of the main spread exceedingly well. Irdak snickered softly. <i>Welcome to the Dark Side, young Padawans.</i></p>
<p>In the elegant boudoirs of the upper levels, fashionable ladies started taking notice. Discreet calls to hair stylists and tailors were placed, and assistants were being tasked with finding out if a reputable tattoo parlor with availability could be found on-planet.</p>
<p>In the clubs and dive bars of the lower levels, the desperate and loose-limbed glitterati ripped their clothes to ribbons and mixed food coloring with alcohol to create almost-indelible temporary tattoos, enough to last until Monday morning, enough to attract the fireflies of the club scene to another pale sweaty painted body emulating the willowy elegance of the Zabrak with the gun belt and the garter tattoo peeking from his skirt.</p>
<p>In row upon row of austere Temple quarters, fantasies bled into the Force of wild rides on beautiful bucking bodies that may have had horns. Or tattoos. Or artfully tailored, even more artfully torn attire that revealed just enough about the dreamers of those dreams. Zabrak Padawans held their horns high, and the shades of brown darkened subtly around them, framing smoldering Jedi eyes of all genders and species, dreaming a shared dream.</p>
<p>And in the office of Master Dooku, the trash chute went unused in favor of the… archive. Yes, archive. That’s where that particular copy would go. The <i>secure</i> archive. Under Master Dooku’s pillow.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Day 142: Sith Style</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>You’ve Seen the Sith Zabrak with the Garter Tattoo</i>, the headline blared. <i>Wait Till You See His Master.</i></p>
<p>And the screams of delight were heard the planet over. </p>
<p>Dooku had been dubious at first, appreciative of course of his apprentice’s enterprising spirit and creative approach but also adamant that the young man’s sexualized approach to… well, <i>everything</i>, would not work when applied to him. </p>
<p>He had turned out to be thoroughly and completely wrong. The trash chute had been gorged with envelopes, the fan mail and steamy love notes piling up on the Master’s desk. Yes, addressed to him. </p>
<p>And he hadn’t even shown any skin.</p>
<p>Then again, the way Irdak had all but draped himself all over him in a few choice photos, licking an artfully placed faux blood spatter off his bearded cheek, had sealed his fate as the new archetype of the stern and delectable Master.</p>
<p>
  <i>Some of the letters were… uh, quite detailed in their…</i>
</p>
<p>He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He had a duty to perform, and if that included assisting his wayward apprentice in creating a distraction, then so be it. Though he had to admit that what had started out as a distraction was fast becoming the main focus of their mission.</p>
<p>Not, obviously, the part about the fashion statements. Or the part - he shuddered delicately at the filthy sublevels of the HoloNet that Irdak had, gleefully it had to said, given him a guided tour of only a few nights ago - the part where shadowy HoloNet denizens were creating quite detailed… and technically brilliant... literary and visual depictions of himself and his apprentice in various acrobatic amorous adventures that their actual love life, while still fresh and certainly delightful, could not hold a candle to. </p>
<p>Also, he wasn’t <i>that</i> big. Anywhere.</p>
<p>He shook his head again. If the distraction part of the mission was working this well on <i>him</i>, he could only pity the rest of the galaxy. The ossified structures of bureaucracy and corporation were already beginning to crumble, pummelled by the exuberant feet of booted, swishing, painted wannabe Sith. </p>
<p>Doing his duty hadn’t been this much fun in <i>decades.</i></p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Sith Style. Really. </p>
<p>Darth Sidious crumpled another piece of paper, not caring that it was likely a priceless subtly altered treaty document rather than the execrable fashion rags that were encroaching on his workspace. </p>
<p>Not that the supply of subtly altered treaty documents was anything resembling reliable these days. Darth Sidious had to admit that he was increasingly finding himself ignored in favor of hedonistic pleasure; his second-in-command, Darth Tyranus, had all but renounced his duties to him and had not returned a call in weeks, instead choosing to appear in the pages of those… anyway.</p>
<p>And the Senate had stopped playing nice too. Not to mention the Rim Worlds which were just as much if not more so in the grip of this galaxy-wide ‘Sith Style’ phenomenon. They were growing entire new, ungovernable <i>economies</i> based on cottage industry, user-created content, and… straps, as far as he could tell. There was Sith-style make-up, Sith-style clothing, Sith-style music and literature and cuisine and rebellion and sex… and last week, his personal secretary had quit and run off with someone from Mas Amedda’s staff to “be a Sith”.</p>
<p>Darth Sidious groaned in frustration. Being a Sith was no fun any more.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Day 200: Voicemail Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This is the personal comm line of someone you probably weren’t looking for. Leave a message if you dare and I will come for you. If I feel like it.”</p>
<p>Dooku sighed. Time zones and interplanetary call routing notwithstanding, he was getting tired of talking to his apprentice’s voicemail. Especially as the levels of deception and security he had to go through to even <i>get</i> Irdak’s personal line were fast approaching the ridiculous.</p>
<p>That said, he could have picked that voice out of a thousand even with all the static. And he couldn’t wait to be back on Coruscant and gleefully reassert the fact that he was pretty much the only person in the galaxy with exclusive access to the latest celebrity Sith’s schedule. </p>
<p>A lengthy <i>training</i> session was in order. The boy had a taste for discipline, and Dooku had decades of experience. <i>Let’s see how well you pose when you can’t sit down, Irdak.</i></p>
<p>Dooku was pretty sure the smirk on his face would qualify as truly Sithly. </p>
<p>*beep* *click*</p>
<p><i>Damn, distracted again.</i> With a small frustrated groan, Dooku hit redial and waited for the cheeky message. <i>Come for me indeed. If your </i>Master<i> feels like it, imp.</i></p>
<p>“Irdak. Dooku here. It’s all over bar the shouting, thank the Force. I have a small amount of debris to clean up and some DNA samples to collect because there’s no way I’m carting the entire charred mess back to Coruscant. Why he would go hide out on Mustafar is anyone’s guess. I may never get the stink out of these clothes. Anyway, be a good apprentice and tell the Senate that their rogue former Supreme Chancellor is definitely confirmed dead.” A pause. “And I hate to tell you this via voicemail, but that means you get to pick a proper Sith name because apparently there’s a slot open for a Dark Lord. See you in 36 hours, hyperspace willing. Dooku out.”</p>
<p>He’d barely hung up when his comm chirped with an incoming call. Private number. Dooku smiled.</p>
<p>“Irdak.”</p>
<p>“The same. Though not for that much longer, by the sound of it? I get to add ‘th’s to my name now?”</p>
<p>“If you so wish. ‘Darth’ <i>is</i> a traditional title that is now available to you, yes.”</p>
<p>“Not sure what that would do to my brand recognition.” Irdak chuckled.</p>
<p>“Your brand recognition,” Dooku replied with sharply rolled r’s, “is entirely in your physical appearance, and your willingness to overshare said physical appearance, my young apprentice.”</p>
<p>“And you love every minute of it, my young Master.”</p>
<p>Dooku swallowed, still too proud to admit that yes, he rather did. And that growing his hair back out had been a rather nice idea.</p>
<p>“Anyway,” Irdak continued cheerfully, “congrats on cleaning up the big ugly. That has upped the attractiveness factor of the remaining Sith by several thousand per cent.”</p>
<p>“You are talking to the Dark Lord of the Sith, you know?” Dooku growled, almost convincingly.</p>
<p>“And Force knows I would prefer to do many things other than <i>talk</i> to said Dark Lord of the Sith,” Irdak purred. “But a wise man once taught me about duty, and so that is what I’m doing. For now.”</p>
<p>“How is that going, by the way?”</p>
<p>“Swimmingly. They had to set up remote links because the main lecture hall wasn’t big enough to accommodate the audience. I rather suspect the ‘Way of the Skin’ grinds the entire Jedi Temple to a halt twice a week. And they’re considering setting up, uh, practical lab classes for want of a better word.”</p>
<p>“<i>Lab</i> classes?”</p>
<p>Irdak chuckled. “Well, there’s this lovely middle-aged Jedi Knight, Pehe Vaurt is her name, who has ideas in her head about creative uniform design, and she has the workshop to back it up… but no, I suspect the main thrust of the practical classes is going to be rather more… physical than that.”</p>
<p>The raised eyebrow was audible.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Irdak said with a barely suppressed smirk. “I get to create the curriculum for Practical Hedonism 101. Also known as the Padawan Force-Fuck Hour. Oh, and the prospective teaching assistants are quite lovely. I was introduced to this charming young Master who practically gushed with how much he’d wanted to meet me since he’d first heard about my existence, because it turns out that they tried to comm him when I first washed up in the infirmary late last year but he was offworld and… well, let’s just say he’s <i>extremely</i> eager to get to know me. I suspect he had a thing for my… original. Which seems to be more common than I thought in general, but this one is...” he exhaled softly. “Let’s just say I’ve been having fun thinking about using him for practical demonstrations. A lot.”</p>
<p>“Kenobi.” Dooku’s voice was flat.</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s his name. Obi-Wan Kenobi, would you believe it? No wonder he became a Jedi with a name like that, they’d have probably laughed him out of any other profession. But yes, quite the compact little fighter. And singularly focused on making my blood sing.”</p>
<p>“He was Jinn’s apprentice.”</p>
<p>“Oooooh. Yes, that makes a whole lot of sense now. Well, I’m not sure he’s fishing to be mine quite yet but he’s certainly showing an aptitude. Actually, I wonder just how perfect he would be behind me, in me, while you stuff my mouth with your delicious flesh and I do my level best not to explode from the Force-approved banging. How does tomorrow night sound?”</p>
<p>“Give me a few hours to decompress from hyperspace travel, Irdak.”</p>
<p>“That’s <i>Darth</i> Irdak to you, Master.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you too, Irdak.”</p>
<p>“Looking forward to it.”</p>
<p>The sound that crackled through the comm line sounded suspiciously like a kiss. Dooku disconnected the line. It would be a long 36 hours to get back to Coruscant. Then again, galactic domination, not to mention <i>peace</i>, was worth the effort.</p>
<p>And if he would have to fight a ludicrously-named Jedi Master over the privilege of fucking his apprentice’s dirty mouth, then so be it. </p>
<p>Sith Lord Darth Tyranus was certainly ready.</p>
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